


The Clothes Make the Man Affair

by Graculus



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-10
Updated: 2011-03-10
Packaged: 2017-10-16 20:44:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Graculus/pseuds/Graculus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the <a href="http://www.livejournal.com/community/muncle/">2009 Down the Chimney challenge</a> - at/in/regarding a museum, alter-egos, awkward/confined spaces</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Clothes Make the Man Affair

It was five weeks and two days since he'd last seen Illya Kuryakin.

In itself that didn't sound like a very long time, but the change in his partner in the intervening weeks he'd been using this persona was clearly one now set in place, if Napoleon was any judge of the other man; he'd become used to Illya's ways, as a partner was meant to do, but the two of them had never been all that comfortable together. Well, not so much him but Illya, certainly, who always seemed to be looking over his shoulder for something, or someone, to pounce.

This Illya looked serenely relaxed, in comparison to the memories Napoleon had of his partner, dressed head to toe in form-hugging black. Relaxed and fully in control of the situation, despite the fact that he was currently hanging from a 50-foot rope over a glass display case containing the gaudiest Faberge egg Napoleon had ever seen. One slight twist of Illya's body had him upside down, cutting tool in hand as he lowered inch by painstaking inch toward the top of the case.

The egg was genuine, of course. They couldn't have risked switching it for a fake, even though Illya had somehow managed to get a message through to UNCLE telling them exactly what he intended to do next. This way, at least, he could give some kind of update on his progress and keep his Thrush paymasters happy at the same time - a win-win situation if Napoleon had ever seen one.

It had been a stroke of luck to substitute Illya for one of the thieves Thrush had been using, the other man's broken leg from an unexpected accident making him an easy target for the switch. Though Napoleon doubted such subterfuge would be something they could manage in the long term, once Thrush got an idea who they were up against and more details about UNCLE's top agents. At the moment, though, Illya was still too new this side of the Atlantic for the local satraps to have caught up with his likeness. For once, Napoleon blessed the spirit of competition that Thrush encourage - had that organization been as cooperatively minded as UNCLE it would have been another matter entirely.

It wasn't all that good, though, for him to be without Illya all these weeks. Short one partner, annoying as Illya could be at times, and missing him more than Napoleon had ever expected would be the case. Barring the odd week apart here and there, whether for vacation or recuperation, the two of them had been almost joined at the hip for well over a year. Longer, certainly than anyone thought their partnership would last from the outset, the two of them included - that had been something both had acknowledged, albeit reluctantly, quite soon after they'd first been partnered.

Idly, waiting for Illya to finish his task, Napoleon studied the line of his partner's body, black against the gloom of the museum's roof. He'd known Illya was something of a gymnast, seen that skill come in handy on any number of missions, but it wasn't often he got the chance to just indulge himself in watching. Normally, there were plenty of Thrush operatives looking to put a bullet between his eyes and that made taking a grandstand seat for his partner's performance on the job a risky choice, to say the least.

He'd found himself thinking this kind of thing before, though, whenever practice sessions gave him the chance to watch Illya in action. How his partner's body would feel, lithe and muscular, pressed against his own. Especially in the aftermath of action, adrenaline still coursing through their bodies, sweat-slick and tense. And how Illya would snap his neck like a twig if he ever figured out what Napoleon was thinking.

The squeak of diamond on glass made Napoleon snap out of it, returning him to the real world with a jolt. Even in the dimly lit museum, he could see the concentration on Illya's face, one hand steady as it cut a hole through which the Faberge egg would eventually emerge, the other holding the handle of the suction cup around which he was cutting a loose ellipse across the surface of the glass.

It was the work of moments for Illya to remove the glass, then inch himself even lower till his hand could reach inside the case and wrap around the gem-encrusted egg. Regardless of how hideous Napoleon might think it was, that particular trinket was worth a large amount of money from some obsessive collector and that money would finance all sorts of Thrush endeavors.

Illya seemed to study the egg for a moment and Napoleon grinned, wondering if his partner shared his opinion of the thing. Then, as Illya righted himself and began the long ascent back to the hole in the roof he'd made, Napoleon slipped away into the shadows and let his partner disappear too, unobserved.

\-----------------------

Passing a mirror in the hall on the way to his hotel room rendezvous with Thrush, Napoleon struggled not to react to the sight of the job UNCLE's make-up artists had done on him. He'd been startled by it the first time around, opening his eyes in the make-up chair with no warning of what they'd produced, the white hair and small goatee to match making him look both older than his true years and rakishly different.

The wardrobe had been chosen to match, taking Napoleon's love of well-cut suits and replacing them with something a little more avant garde. He wasn't sure if he liked it, but it would do, he supposed. Still, it took effort not to run a finger round the edge of the jacket's collar, or not to look too closely at the garish tones of the shirt he was wearing under it where the sleeves poked out at the cuffs.

If anything, the clothes he wore were a message for the people he was about to do business with, even if Napoleon wasn't all that comfortable with what that message was.

In the end, he didn't have to even knock, as clearly someone had been watching out for him. The hotel room door swung open silently, inviting, and Napoleon walked into the room with every appearance of calm, even as the skin between his shoulder blades itched.

He'd barely crossed the threshold before the door closed behind him, a well-muscled Thrush operative behind it with a gun already drawn. There was clearly no going back now.

"Right on time, Mr. Murray." Napoleon turned his attention from the Thrush goon to the man occupying a chair near the window, the light behind him turning him into just a silhouette. "Your reputation for promptness is well-earned, I see."

Napoleon made himself smile, studying the man who'd spoken to him even as he made a surreptitious inspection of the rest of the room. The door to the bathroom was closed, as was the door to the adjoining suite, and the large bed that otherwise dominated the room appeared unused. No sign of Illya. No sign of anyone but the three of them.

"Time is money," he said, crossing to where the other man sat and offering his hand. After a moment, when there was no response to the gesture, Napoleon took the other chair without being offered a seat. "And now we shouldn't waste any more of either. I believe you have something I might be interested in?"

Now he could see properly, Napoleon recognized the man who sat opposite him and hoped that the make-up job he'd been given was as good as it appeared to him. Scott was an ambitious man, high up in the Thrush hierarchy, but determined to climb even higher if UNCLE's intelligence was correct. There was also a reasonable chance he might recognize either UNCLE agent, which made Illya's absence all the more worrying.

Scott leaned over and picked up a small box from the floor beside his chair, placed it on the table between them and tapped his finger twice on its lid. Another test, like the refusal to shake hands? Or just what it seemed, a box exactly the right size for the egg Illya had stolen. Either way, Napoleon had to know and then deal with the consequences. He held his breath, then reached forward and flipped the lid open, letting his breath emerge in a silent hiss when all it revealed was the hideous Faberge egg he'd last seen in Illya's hands.

"Before I make payment, you'll forgive me if I'm curious about how you obtained such an item," Napoleon said, sitting back as if he'd forgotten his previous need for haste and crossing his legs casually at the ankle. "I know where, of course, but not how." It was a risky move, but one Napoleon had no choice but to make if he wanted to know where his partner was. "There may be more items like this I'd be keen to acquire."

Napoleon could feel Scott studying him, even as he worked at keeping a slightly fatuous expression on his face. Rich as all get out but dumb as a stump, that was the effect he was going for; Napoleon was certain both men were buying all he was currently selling if the scornful look that flicked across the Thrush goon's face was anything to go by. Scott didn't look any more impressed, but the power of Napoleon's promised payment made him play his cards a little closer to his chest than his subordinate did.

Finally, after what seemed a lifetime, Scott nodded almost imperceptibly and the Thrush goon moved from his position by the door, crossing to the one that led to an adjacent room.

"Get in here," he said, as he swung it open.

There was, Napoleon realized now, a major difference between admiring his partner in the half light of a dimly lit museum and seeing that same black-clad figure up close and personal in full daylight.

"Oh my," Napoleon said, before he could help himself, then realized that particular response wasn't a problem at all. Not for this persona, given the history he'd been given by UNCLE to flesh out the man, not that Napoleon could have helped himself even if that wasn't the case.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Scott's smirk, the scornful expression on the goon's even wider than before. Not that Napoleon could take his eyes off his partner, the combination of that lithe body clad in fabric that left almost nothing to the imagination and the swagger in Illya's walk enough to make it impossible to do so. Napoleon was suddenly all too aware of the tightness of the pants he wore, not to mention the relative thinness of the fabric where it stretched across his groin.

"Our expert," Scott said, returning Napoleon's attention to the egg by dropping the lid closed with a snap.

"In many things." That was Illya's voice, the accent he'd become so used to now exaggerated for effect, drawing Napoleon's attention back to him as surely as if he'd been hooked and landed with a pole. "I give satisfaction, _da_?"

Napoleon's mouth was suddenly dry, the words he might have spoken trapped there, but oddly he was certain that later he would probably think that was a good thing.

\-----------------------

The exchange had gone off without a hitch, after Illya had been dismissed back into the adjoining room by Scott and Napoleon had picked his jaw up off the floor. He'd handed over the bankers draft, picked up the box with the egg in it and left. One of the virtues of climbing the ladder in Section 2, Napoleon supposed, was that you didn't get stuck with the more boring parts of the job, like cleaning up after the agents who got to have all the fun.

He'd made the rendezvous in good time, handing over the egg to a waiting UNCLE agent in exchange for his communicator and UNCLE Special before being summarily sent home for the day by Mr. Waverly. There was, after all, a time and a place for overtime payments and this particular mission wasn't it.

Entering his bedroom, Napoleon caught sight of himself again in the full-length mirror that decorated one of his closet doors. Gun and holster joined the communicator on his bed as he studied his reflection for a moment.

"Ridiculous," he said, tugging at the top button of the jacket. As the buttons gave way under his fingers, the patterns on the emerging material of the shirt made Napoleon wince. "The things I do for UNCLE..."

The fabric of the shirt was slick and warm under his fingers, making him wonder just how what Illya had been wearing would feel. If he'd had the chance to do more than look, not to mention stare, at his partner's clothing from across the room. Napoleon closed his eyes, thinking back to the hotel room - despite the constant worry about the possibility of the mission going wrong, the strongest sensation he had from that moment was seeing his partner, standing there in the doorway.

The slightest of sounds in the otherwise silent bedroom made him open his eyes. Napoleon blinked, as his own image in the mirror moved slightly. Without taking his eyes from the closet door, Napoleon reached behind himself to free his UNCLE Special from its holster, its familiar weight reassuring.

Another step and the closet door slid open to his touch, the sudden influx of light making Illya blink and raise a hand. Napoleon lowered the gun and then carefully placed it on the nearby bureau; the sight of his partner, still dressed head to toe in black, made him momentarily lost for words.

In one swift move, Illya reached out and took a handful of Napoleon's shirt, pulling him forward into the closet while simultaneously sliding closed the door. The two of them stumbled together, in the darkness, Napoleon's hands finding themselves on the warm muscled curves of Illya's body, the material cladding every inch just as warm as he had imagined.

"You need to lose that beard, my friend," Illya muttered, the breath of his words warm against Napoleon's cheek and the only warning he gave before taking hold of the offending hair and giving it one hard pull. "That's better." Illya's fingers trailed across the newly-sensitive skin. "It really didn't suit you."

Illya pushed back then, keeping Napoleon off-balance, till his back hit the wall. They were together there, in the velvet darkness; the solidity of the brick behind him, the warm weight of Illya in front were the only sensations of which Napoleon was certain. Those, and his own emerging erection, the cloth of his pants hiding nothing from his partner, evidence neither of them could ignore.

"And the shirt?" Napoleon was proud that his voice sounded almost normal, considering the blood loss below his belt at the moment. "I consider it a crime against fashion, to say the least."

"Currently," Illya said, as Napoleon felt his partner's hand slide down his torso as if illustrating the point, "I have a little more interest in the pants." Illya had taken hold of his belt and was undoing it with both hands now, before pulling Napoleon's hips forward to slide the offending material off then letting it slither to the floor around his ankles. "That's better," he said again, as Napoleon felt his erection come free of the confining cloth.

Illya's hand was calloused, sure and deft as Napoleon had always expected it would be, in those times when he'd imagined what an encounter with his partner would be like. Times that had happened much more often since he'd seen Illya dressed the way he currently was.

The heat against his hip, where Illya's groin was currently pressed, told Napoleon his interest was not the one-sided thing he had thought. Smiling to himself in the darkness, certain that this particular sneaky Russian was not quite as sneaky as he thought himself to be, Napoleon brushed his hand across Illya's cloth-covered erection. Illya bit back a moaned response to the touch, his mouth where the sensitive skin of Napoleon's neck met the slick material of his shirt but careful not to leave a mark.

Their UNCLE-owned apartments were monitored, of course, which was why they were currently making out in Napoleon's closet - the only place not wired for sound in the entire building, as far as Napoleon knew. Illya would know that too, of course, which was why he'd set up this particular ambush in the first place. Illya shifted his grip them, fingers tightening a little in a way that sent all thoughts of practicalities far from Napoleon's mind, his head leaning back against the solid brick as he gasped out his completion. In the quiet of the closet, his breath sounded thunderous, echoing.

"Later, I'll let you undress me," Illya said quietly when Napoleon had begun to breath easier; the words alone made Napoleon's tired cock jerk once more, accent thickening as he spoke. "I give satisfaction, _da_?"


End file.
